Untitled
by Hatochan
Summary: Series of short pieces involving Sherlock and John and their various acquaintances. From friendship to slash and everything in between. Ratings vary by Chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Untitled**  
>Rating: <strong>PG-13**  
>Warnings: <strong>PTSD (military related). **  
>Spoilers: <strong>None. **  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson. **  
>Word Count: <strong>1600+**  
>Disclaimer: <strong>The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. **  
>Summary: <strong>John suffers in his sleep. Sherlock suffers by interruption. Mrs. Hudson suffers by proximity. ( Can be read as pre-slash, or simply friendship.)

* * *

><p>Sherlock is in the middle of a late night experiment - testing the adhesive powers of certain homemade glues under the stress of gravity- when he hears it. A low, incoherent murmur filtering through the hallway from the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock ignores it and attaches another tea cup to the underside of the kitchen table. Careful to keep the thick glue from dripping onto the edge of his dressing gown.<p>

He ignores it because John is upstairs. Laid flat by a vicious flu virus plaguing the majority of Scotland Yard. A small cough the previous evening had morphed into a wet, harsh barking by morning. By the time the two men had returned home that night, John had been deep in the throes of fever and chills. Utterly miserable. And utterly useless to Sherlock's work for the time being.

Mrs. Hudson had bundled John up, pressed two nondescript pills into his hand, and practically tucked him into his bed. She had a few choice words for Sherlock on her way back downstairs that Sherlock had barely taken note of except to nod and spill a few empty agreements from his mouth until he heard her flat door shut behind her.

And then he promptly forgot about everything not connected to his experiment.

Now there's a muffled voice, rising in volume before abruptly ending.

Sherlock continues to ignore it. It's not unusual for John to talk in his sleep, to have nightmares involving his military career and occasionally his current line of work. Just because John thrives on the adrenaline rush, Sherlock does not assume that he isn't haunted by some truly horrifying memories. Dark experiences. Regrets. Things that tend to make themselves known only in the most vulnerable of states.

But Sherlock is confident that John is capable of handling them on his own. He never disturbs John during his night terrors and does not intend to start sticking his nose in now. Not when he's so close to discovering which adhesive is the culprit in their newest case. No matter how interesting it would be to observe. Physical manifestations of mental afflictions are always so fascinating.

However, Sherlock has already discovered that watching John suffer is neither satisfying nor enlightening. Merely... unsettling.

So he moves on to the next container of sticky, foul smelling goop.

A yell. A crash of glass.

Sherlock grinds his molars and paints the bottom of a tea cup with glue. Sticks it beside the dozen others already lined upside down on the underside of the table.

Click of a door lock. Mrs. Hudson's voice calling up the stairs." Sherlock? What's going on?"

Nothing, Mrs. Hudson! Sorry to wake you!" Sighs quietly. Sherlock waits until her flat door shuts, the lock sliding into place. Then rolls to his feet and strides into the hallway. Takes the steps two at a time. He's irritated. Concerned, as well, but mostly irritated at being interrupted and he hopes he can get back downstairs before the first tea cup loses its grip from underneath the table. It's important to record the time lapsed between adherence and release.

Sherlock isn't certain what he'll find when he opens John's bedroom door. Obviously, something broken. Most likely the lamp on his bedside table judging by the sound of the crash. Hopefully, John hasn't cut himself in the process. One hand pushing the door wide open, Sherlock stands in the doorway for a few moments, surveying the dimly lit scene.

As he suspected, the silhouette of the lamp is missing from the far bedside table. Along with the small digital clock radio. And John is thrashing about in the blankets, a confusing mix of words and half words and animal-like whimpers of fear erupting from his mouth every few seconds. Sherlock recognizes a few of the murmured phrases.

_Intense fear and aggression- military call signs- active combat- deployment. Flash back heightened by fever._

_Broke lamp without waking- unable to wake fully- doped to the gills. Stuck inside the nightmare due to heavy medication._

Sherlock quickly decides that calling from the doorway is not going to do him any good. Will, in fact, only waste his time that could be spent in his kitchen-cum-lab. He chooses the quicker, more effective plan.

_Direct contact. Risky, but the only option._

A few steps and Sherlock is at John's bedside, hand reaching out. He's prepared for a strike, most likely a blind swing at his face. Thankfully John's pistol is not beneath his pillow, but stashed away properly in the desk drawer in the sitting room. A bit of foresight on Sherlock's part. Sherlock raises his arm to protect his upper body. He firmly grips John's left shoulder -careful of the scarring- and gives a shake. " John!" Loud whisper in the dark. " John, wake up!"

He is not prepared for John's garbled shout. Or the sudden lunge around the middle that tackles him to the ground.

Sherlock has the breath knocked from him, back of his head bouncing on the carpet. A heavy weight presses him against the floor, pinning him, practically smothering him. The heat emanating from John is unbelievable, the fever raging unchecked. Sherlock begins to struggle, careful of the man above him, but struggling nonetheless, against the arms and chest and hands attempting to hold him down. John responds by curling tighter around Sherlock's shoulders and head, words pouring non-stop from his mouth. John's hand awkwardly presses a wad of bedclothes against Sherlock's midsection.

It takes Sherlock several long seconds before realization sets in and he lies still on the cold floor. John is covering him. Protecting him from whatever hellish war is playing out in his memory.

Not only protecting him, but attempting to save his life. Sherlock stares at the dark figure that raises up just enough to give him a bit of room to breathe easier, glazed eyes half lidded. " Stay with me... Sta-Hold dis! Hold dis!" John's voice is rough, from the illness, from the strain. Slurred by the drugs. Sherlock takes the tangle of bedding from John's grip and keeps it in place on his stomach as ordered. Apparently, he is suffering from a rather traumatic abdominal wound in John's dream.

He should physically wake John. Wake John up and get him back into bed. Get himself back downstairs to collect his data. Time the failures so he can piece together the next part of the case.

Sherlock should wake him. This is... not interesting.

But it isn't dull. Not in the least.

Sherlock watches John perform a clumsy pantomime of combat triage over his sprawled form. Notes the steadiness of his hands despite the attempts to use imaginary medical supplies. A true soldier, a medical man, through and through.

And notes the tremor in John's voice. " Is'alright, Ollie. G-going to get you outta here... please, dear God, dear God..." Tiny stammer, shaking breaths. Panicked. Another stream of bitten off military speak. Calling for pick up.

Sherlock doesn't like listening. Doesn't like watching. But he can't help but _observe_.

_Ollie- short for Oliver (Harry/Harriet, but I doubt there are many 'Olivia's on the front line)- soldier- nickname implies certain level of seniority and fondness on John's part- tone implies certain amount of responsibility taken on- most likely younger than John at the time. Rooky taken under John's wing._

_Focus on midsection- lots of 'bandages'- lots of pressure- great urgency in tone- massive injury to internal organs in abdominal area- most likely explosive in origin. Fatal strike._

Something hot and wet dripping onto his face. Sherlock loses his line of thought as John leans down, resting his sweaty forehead against Sherlock's at an awkward angle. Frighteningly hot. John sobs quietly. Tears and snot smear across Sherlock's skin. " So s-sorry, 'Msorry..."

And Sherlock wonders just how long ago this occurred. How long has John repressed it? Or has John's subconscious chosen it to express a newer fear, a more recent emotional trauma?

A muffled crash downstairs. Porcelain breaking on the hard kitchen floor.

Sherlock mutters a curse under his breath. His tea cups are falling. John flinches. Two ticks later and Mrs. Hudson's voice calls from two stories below. " Sherlock? Really now!"

Apologies!" Sherlock shouts toward the open door. Practically into John's ear, who startles at the loud voice and jerks upright. Flushed face still wet. Gaze a bit clearer. Sherlock continues to lie on the floor like a proper casualty and observes his friend's rise from the depths of delirium.

John looks about the room, obviously confused, and finally settles his gaze on Sherlock. " Sherlock?... Are you... stealing my blankets?"

" No."

" Ta."

Sherlock sighs and sits up, tossing the bedclothes back onto the mattress. He's actually a bit amused by John's conclusion and seeming acceptance of Sherlock's simple reply. Sherlock gets to his feet and manages to get John off the floor. For someone his size, John is deceptively heavy, though very malleable in this sleepy state.

Sherlock rolls the man back into bed, sloppily arranges the blankets over him. Pulls an exasperated face as John immediately buries his face into the pillow and babbles incoherently. Knows John will most likely not even remember this little episode in the morning. And there is no reason for Sherlock to ever bring it to his attention. Even if he hasn't deleted it in favor of something more relevant by sunrise, which is highly probable.

Right now, Sherlock's only concern is getting back to his kitchen to see which adhesive failed first. If he hurries, doesn't waste time washing off the sticky fluids drying on his cheek, then perhaps he can-

A series of sharp cracks. Tea cups shattering.

John jerks in his sleep, breathing labored.

Mrs. Hudson's door slams open. " SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock grinds his back teeth and heads down the stairs to snatch a nicotine patch from the medicine cabinet. He needs one. Maybe even two. For the lecture from Mrs. Hudson, the night of playing nurse for John, and the inevitable reset of his experiment in the early morning hours. 

_end. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Untitled II  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Mature  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Some sexual details, slash, bit of angst, swearing.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> The Great Game and the first episode of Season 2.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sherlock/John.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 3168  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> John just needs a little bit. And Sherlock has just enough to get him through this.  
><strong>AN:** So... I haven't seen Season 2 yet, and I've honestly been trying to avoid reading too much about it because I'm being a 'good girl'. But, I believe everyone is aware that they survived the incident at The Pool (otherwise there'd be no Season 2) and that is the only thing that might be considered a spoiler in this particular piece, since everything else is purely conjecture on my part.  
><strong>Inspired by:<strong>_Little Bit_ by Likke Li

* * *

><p>It's bitterly cold outside. Damp and icy.<p>

John barely feels it. Perhaps, a bit, in his hands. He flexes them a few times to get his sluggish blood circulating through his fingers again. _Shock_, his training tells him. _Acute stress reaction_. Tucks his hands back under the blanket Sherlock tossed over his shoulders before leaving the pool with Mycroft's cheery entourage. Bright blue, Shaun the Sheep print. Nicked from an open locker. Sherlock had promised to return it before its owner ever became aware of its absence.

John ignores the curious glances in the rearview mirror. Surely a bloke wrapped in a child's blankie isn't the strangest thing Mycroft's driver has seen during his tenure.

He pulls the blanket tighter around him and slumps heavily against the car door, staring out the window. London is still dark. A blur of black and grey shapes passing by the tinted glass, colored lights streaking here and there in abstract patterns. John wants to close his eyes. He's tired. Exhausted. And the hum of the engine and the warmth of the blanket and the soft clicking of Anthea texting next to him and Sherlock's brooding silence on the other side of her should be enough to send him to sleep.

But there's something. _Something_. Some little bit of... tension... that he can't quite shake off. Just enough to keep John from slipping away, prohibiting his escape from the night's events.

So John continues to stare out the window until the car slows and angles against the curb. 221 Baker St, on his side. He barely listens as Anthea and Sherlock exchange a few cold words, focusing his clumsy fingers on opening his car door. It takes him a moment and John is mildly surprised to find Sherlock already standing on the curb, holding the door open for him. John wonders if Sherlock simply moved that quickly or if he himself had truly been so slow. Doesn't really matter, and the thought is quickly gone the way of all John's current thoughts. Oblivion. Lost, in the dark, hazy oblivion where nothing makes much impact. If Anthea suddenly sprouted wings and sang a medley of Mycroft's favorite show tunes, John doubts he'd do more than raise a brow. He steps out and nods in return to Anthea's distracted farewell.

Sherlock doesn't actually take John by the arm, but he stays very close to him. Certainly near enough to touch and John accidentally brushes against him several times as they shuffle through the door, and up the stairs. He feels lighter now, without the heavy vest lined with explosives that he'd worn for far too long, but the stairs still seem impossibly steep. John can't help but chuckle as Sherlock's hand- finally- barely rests on his elbow just before they reach the landing. Not quite pulling him along. Steadying him.

John feels the rush of frigid air, familiar and comforting smells as Sherlock opens the door to their flat. Sherlock's hand guiding him still, but John remains on the landing. Keeps from being led inside. That little something. Niggling in the back of his mind. John glances up, catches Sherlocks' small, questioning frown. Gives him a small, assuring smile. " Think... I'm gonna sleep. For a while." And he wants to say something else. But he doesn't know what he wants to say so he says nothing.

Sherlock's expression is rather blank. The frown melts into a quiet, " Of course." And- to John at least- it looks like Sherlock wants to say something else. But he doesn't.

So John stands on the landing, uncertain. Apparently waiting, though he has no idea what he's waiting for. For something to be said between them? For Sherlock to turn and enter the flat? For his own legs to start working? He wobbles as he turns on his heel, getting his foot on the first step. " G'night." John grips the banister and hauls himself up.

" Good night." Faint voice behind him. Slight creak of the floorboards.

John doesn't think at all as he climbs the stairs. Simply gets himself up and to his bedroom door without stumbling. Closes it behind him, slowly approaching the bed in the dark. Idly pulls the blanket from his shoulders, draping it over the back of a chair. He bends down to tug the chain on the bedside lamp and flinches against the sudden wash of yellow light.

Toes off his shoes. Stockings balled up and placed inside. The sleeveless jumper joins the blanket over the chair. Belt undone, slipped through the loops, placed on top of the jumper.

Head empty. Some comfort in the mundane routine of undressing. The quiet of the room presses in on him, roaring in his ears.

John sits on the edge of his bed, fingers spread out on the duvet, feeling the worn fabric, the loose threads. Begins unbuttoning his shirt. Taint of chlorine lingering in his clothes, on his skin. He feels sick...

There's a knock at his door and John startles, chuffing a tiny laugh at being startled. Bit on edge, still. " Come in." John shakes his head, grimaces at the roughness of his own voice. Tries again to slip the plastic disc from its hole as he stands up.

The door swings open quietly, Sherlock appearing on the other side, expression unreadable. John's gaze widens at the sight of pyjama pants and a panda bear t-shirt, dressing gown flowing around Sherlock's legs. How bloody long did he sit here spacing out, that Sherlock has managed to undress before him?

It's a stupid little concern. Trivial. Keeps the important, scary stuff at bay. John continues to struggle with the button. Swears to himself that he's going to burn this shirt in the morning if he can ever get it off!

" I just... here." Sherlock's voice. Cautious at first, then gently exasperated as he takes the two strides to the middle of the room and catches the front of John's shirt.

John is too surprised to protest, allowing his hands to be smacked away. He stands, wavering very slightly, head tipped down to watch Sherlock deftly unbutton the remainder of the plaid shirt. The soft, white cotton undershirt is swiftly exposed. John pauses, rubs the hem between his fingertips.

Sherlock steps back and John looks up. And Sherlock has this _look_ on his face and John recognizes it even if he can't name it at this moment and it tugs on something in his chest that he didn't even know was twisted so tight that he can hardly breathe-

John practically jumps the short distance to get his body as close to Sherlock's as he can. Sherlock seems to have the same idea. Only this time he's not quick enough and John nearly knocks the other man off his feet. Frantic hands, just everywhere, everywhere they can reach. Silk and cotton and smooth patches of warm skin. Grasping and clutching. Pulling and tugging.

They don't kiss. John's aware of this, notes this fact somewhere in his distracted brain. Their mouths barely brush against each other on their way from one side to the other, lips pull on earlobes, teeth scrape over chin and jaw and the strong line of a neck. A hint of amused indignation, a tiny spark of disappointment. But really, John knows it doesn't matter. Not right now. In this moment.

John closes his eyes and pushes the tension forward, pushes against the haze of shock-induced apathy and the frustration just beneath it to find expression in his scrabbling fingers and nipping mouth. Ignores the small voices still attached to some sort of romantic delusion. Reaches for the nervous energy and the swelling urge to prove his survival. He's alive. They're both alive. Blood pounding in his ears, throbbing in his veins and he wants Sherlock to hear it. Feel it. To feel Sherlock alive against him.

John wants their kit off, now. All of it. Wants nothing but skin on skin and their sweaty bodies pressed together so he can forget the coldness of metal and Semtex and the bright spot of red light on his chest. Forget the bright spot of red light between Sherlock's brows.

They stumble together, hands invading every gap of clothing. John's button-up shirt hangs off his shoulders. Sherlock's t-shirt pushed up to his armpits, John's fingers sliding through the soft, damp hair curled there. Not paying attention as they fumble about, John pressing forward in his eagerness and Sherlock pressing forward just as eagerly and using his extra height to great advantage. John loses his balance, tumbles backward onto the bed. Takes Sherlock with him, gripping his upper arms hard enough to make Sherlock grunt in discomfort. Definitely a bit on edge, but Sherlock doesn't protest the mild hurt.

John breaks away from squeezing bruises onto Sherlock's arms just long enough to haphazardly pull down the thick blankets. Kicking legs, swatting arms. Bodies bumbling and shifting. Stretching and curling on the end-of-the-week sheets he knows he has to wash tomorrow anyway. No reason to dirty the duvet, as well.

John takes a deep breath and dives back into the frenzy. Gets his hands fisted in the collar of the dressing gown and strips it off with harsh jerks. Tear of a seam. A hiss from Sherlock who handles John's clothes with equal disregard for damage. John's plaid over-shirt is yanked off, leaving thin red welts in the crooks of his elbows and along one wrist. Undershirt roughly pulled up. John grits his teeth, Sherlock's thumb sinking into the scar tissue on his shoulder. It's an odd, discomforting sensation and John can't decide if he likes it or not. So instead, John pushes his hips against the mattress, inviting Sherlock to unbutton and unzip his denims. He shivers at the contact. Sherlock's fingers bleed heat through the thin layer of his pants. John finds this confusing because Sherlock's hands are always cool to the touch when they grab his wrist to run faster or capture his head during a memory-enhancing spin. He decides to ponder it later.

John sucks a mark on Sherlock's chest, right above his nipple, the absurdly soft t-shirt rumpled against his nose. Sherlock moans and John pulls on the man's waistband. Glances down into the shadows between their bodies. Pale skin, a patch of dark hair. The elastic catches on Sherlock's half hard cock and John just manages to brush the satiny skin before slender hands get in the way. Sherlock pushes his own bottoms down, two fingers hooked into John's waistband to pull them down as well. John forces his own hands onto his denims and pants to help out, shoving and cursing softly and doing a rather inelegant job of getting them past his knees. He kicks the trousers off under the sheets and promptly forgets his pants tangled around one leg in favor of wrapping them around Sherlock's larger frame, his friend wedging himself between his thighs.

Friend. Colleague. Partner. Only. Just. A warm body rubbing against his own. All that matters.

Sherlock on top. John underneath. He's certain he would normally protest this. Decides it's not worth the effort and his shoulder is beginning to ache horridly, anyway. He'd put up quite a fight when Moriarity's men had taken him. Wrenched the hell outta his shoulder. John holds Sherlock close with his bad arm wrapped around his back. He spits into the other hand and wiggles it between them, adding it to Sherlock's hand, to the sweat and pre-cum easing this ill timed, desperately pathetic wank. Pushes his face into the side of the other man's neck and focuses on finding his release with a single minded dedication.

But it's awkward and frustrating. They don't move very well together, unable to find a mutual rhythm or even a satisfactory grip. Both too frantic to get off to do it properly. Stuttering breaths and the dull thwapthwap of clumsily stroked flesh are embarrassingly loud in the quiet of his room. John can also hear the low creaky sound of Sherlock fisting the pillow beside his head, crushing the filling inside, straining the fabric of the pillowcase.

John twists his wrist, tightens his grip on the upstroke and thumbs over the tip of Sherlock's leaking cock. A basic technique that's served him well in the past. Sherlock gives an appreciative groan and reciprocates the gesture. It works. He stops just once to slap another layer of saliva into the process.

It's still awkward and messy and their hands keep getting in each other's way and Sherlock accidentally catches a few of John's curls in a painful tug, but finally the familiar sensations begin to heat up in John's belly. Finally, it starts to feel _good_ ,instead of something he just has to do in order to _not feel bad_.

And yet Sherlock is first. John's eyes go wide as the lanky body stiffens atop him, Sherlock losing all semblance of rhythm or cooperation. Random, wild jerks and a wash of warm fluid instantly smearing between them. Soft, muttered curses. John takes it all in; the new slick, the added heat, Sherlock slumped and gasping against him. Those clever fingers continue to pump John's cock, thumb worrying the foreskin so wonderfully. That clever mouth lazily lips just behind his ear, tongue tracing the crease. Sherlock mumbles something and John has no idea what it is, but the warm breath in his ear is enough to push him over the edge.

Not mind blowing, this one, no. Orgasm takes John in a slow rolling wave. Curls his toes, creeps upwards through every tensing muscle, presses the back of his head into the pillow Sherlock is still clutching. His mouth is open, but John is silent. Only breath. Shattered inhales and a deep exhale let loose against Sherlock's shoulder. No flashes of light behind his eyelids. Just a greying around the edges of his vision, blurring the scene for a few moments before John blinks into the yellowing light of his room and stares blearily up at his ceiling.

Decidedly anti-climatic. Like most of his evening, so far.

Sherlock coughs, a small uncomfortable sound, and lifts up. John barely looks at him. Just a tight smile and a glance to say _Don't_, that Sherlock naturally deciphers and, amazingly enough, obeys.

John thanks Christ for small favors and manages to get his wet hand down and his leg up, meeting in the middle to completely strip off his pants. Uses the thin material to half arse wipe away the fluids on his hand and belly.

He can feel it, beginning in his chest. A tiny thrumming. He'd hoped it wouldn't happen this time.

John takes a deep breath and makes one pass over his sticky groin before passing the soiled pants to Sherlock. He's washing the linens tomorrow, he's not going to worry about a few extra stains.

Sherlock moves off him, on his back beside John, before cleaning up. John doesn't watch. He's busy breathing and concentrating on containing the thrum that has spread to his limbs and neck. Tightens his jaw and clenches his hands under the blankets. Wills it to stop or at least not become too apparent before Sherlock leaves.

It doesn't happen every time. John honestly hadn't believed it would happen now. Tonight has been rough, of course, but not quite that traumatic.

This little thing is over now and John feels much better, his mind much quieter than before. Not in the forcefully blanked, hazy way. But in a peacefully spent, empty way. He's grateful to Sherlock for this, for doing this without analyzing or questioning or talking in general despite John's fondness for his deep, mellow voice.

The thrum becomes a tremor. John clenches his jaw, refuses to let his teeth begin to chatter. _Get out. Get out. Get out..._ Carefully inhales and exhales and closes his eyes as Sherlock moves beside him. Shifting on the mattress, Sherlock sitting up. Adjusting his pyjamas and shirt. Getting ready to leave.

Only to pause and lean more heavily on the mattress at John's shoulder. John can feel the man's gaze burning along his skin, knows he's looking down at John and making all sorts of annoyingly accurate observations and deductions.

" John?" Two fingers resting on his neck, measuring his pulse.

John snorts in amusement at the familiar gesture. " S'alright." And he truly is. Now that his mind is settled, his body is slowly but surely settling down, as well. John wants to reassure. Keeps his gaze hidden. " It's nothing, really. You can go d-down." It's hard to speak. The tremor strengthens, now a barely contained shake that vibrates up and down John's body. He fists the sheets at his sides, knows he simply has to ride it out. " Two t-ticks, it'll be ov-over..." John counts in his head. Typically, this last symptom of his shock will torture him for no more than 3 to 4 minutes and then it will fade away as quickly as it came on. And John can go about his business or fall into a lovely sleep if time and place permit. A minor inconvenience, at the most.

Though, the shakes have lasted for as long as an hour. That one time. When he lost Ollie...

But this isn't that, and John knows Sherlock is itching to get back to his experiments or his skull or possibly even their next case. Away from any awkward fallout he is probably expecting to occur and if John had the strength he would laugh out loud at that thought. Post-combat fucks are too deeply ingrained in him for John to feel any embarrassment or a need to rationalize, to justify.

It's just human nature. To need a little bit of _this_ after having the piss scared out of you.

John sighs, the exhale less than smooth, and risks a peek at Sherlock. Even gets half a smile on his face as he feels the tension swelling in his muscles, close to peaking in intensity. Much too difficult to hide now. " R-r-really, I'm fi-fine." Shuts his eyes again, focuses.

Weight dipping on the edge of the bed, on top of the blanket, rolls toward John. A solid body presses against his side. A long arm slides over his chest, his injured shoulder cupped in a large hand. A dip in the pillow and a chin resting on top of his head. Sherlock's voice very matter-of-fact above him. " I won't leave you alone."

John hesitates a fraction of a breath, and then lets go, his entire body quickly swept up in the spasms. Places a shaking hand on the elbow angled over his chest.

Because he knows Sherlock is going to hold him for the next few minutes regardless of any argument or protest. Because he knows Sherlock is convinced that leaving John alone right now would be Not Good.

Because he knows deep down, Sherlock needs a little bit of _this_ in return.

And John is perfectly content with that.

* * *

><p><em><strong>end<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **A Child in Our Midst  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Cursing.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> None.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John, Sherlock  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 3930  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> John is doing a favor for Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is not helpful. Except when he is.

**A/N:** Can be read as friendship or pre-slash.  
><strong>Inspired by:<strong> _Baby Mine_, from Disney's Dumbo

* * *

><p>" What is <em>she<em> doing here?"

John looks up from his laptop, frowns disapprovingly at his flatmate and rolls his eyes. Sherlock's tone is amusing, though. More appropriate for a wife questioning the presence of a mistress. Not for the ginger toddler quietly playing on the sofa beside John with a stack of wooden picture frames that he had found in a corner of the sitting room. They hadn't seemed too important or altered in some way by Sherlock so John had deemed them reasonably safe. " You've known Sophie for months now. In fact, she came up for tea only yesterday with Mrs. Hudson."

" Sophie," the girl parrots back, almost absently as she rubs a frame against her jumper. A vibrant blue affair, with a rotund elephant balancing a pink heart on its trunk. John thinks it is quite possibly the most adorable jumper he's ever seen. Makes his own reliable cable-knit seem duller than usual.

" That's not the point." Sherlock frowns at them both, one hand holding his dressing gown pinned to one hip, the other holding a long pipette of some faintly yellow liquid. John gets a whiff of ammonia. " _Why_ is she here? "

" She's been in the kitchen twice already. Even said hullo. Did you really not know she was here?" John uses his overly patient voice, not wanting to upset their small guest or waste too much energy on being upset with Sherlock. It rarely gets him any results.

" Lahlock." Sophie points at Sherlock. And pulls a rather respectable scowl to her chubby face.

John beams and just barely contains his laughter. " Well done, Sophie!"

Sherlock merely deepens his own scowl. Deadpans. " Bravo. Now tell me why she's sitting in our flat, mucking about with my things, and filling the place with the scent of apple juice and stale biccies. Among other things. "

John sighs and looks back down at his screen, double checking his spelling. " Mrs. Hudson is watching her this week while her parents are in Brighton. She had an old friend call up unexpectedly, wanting to meet up and have a pint or whatever little old ladies do when they get together, and asked me to look after her for a bit. "

" This is not a daycare, John! " Sherlock swings the pipette around in a wild gesture of dissatisfaction. A drop of the liquid escapes and patters onto the carpet, small hiss and whisp of smoke appearing. " I'm working!"

" Thanks for reminding me. No experiments with volatile or noxious materials today, alright? So take that back to the kitchen. " John barely glances up at the vehement protest, quickly cutting off the next. " And you are not currently working on a case, or I would not have agreed to bring her up." He finishes another paragraph and checks on his small charge.

Sophie is intent on a small oak frame with tulips carved on its border. Handling it a bit awkwardly, it falls out of her grasp and hits the carpet with a muffled thud. John finds it's actually quite entertaining to watch her as she struggles to figure out exactly what happened. He can practically see the gears turning in her 16-month-old mind, see her working out how to get the frame back. He wonders if this is what Sherlock sees when he's watching John attempting his own deductions. Sophie finally rolls to the side, getting a good grip on John's denims, and backs off the sofa until her toes touch the rug. She grabs the frame and, still using his leg for balance, climbs back into her spot. Sophie grins and giggles and claps her hands in self-congratulations. John chuckles. He's instantly reminded of Sherlock's little fits of smug happiness. " Good job, sweetheart!"

" Dohn! Dohn!" She wiggles and waves the rescued frame about.

Sherlock throws up his hands in disgust and returns to the kitchen. Dressing gown swishing about his pyjama clad legs in a melodramatic fashion.

John gives his own self-satisfied grin to no one in particular and cracks on with his blog.

* * *

><p>Sophie is an exceptionally well behaved child, in John's opinion. Not that he's dealt with small children on a regular basis in his personal life, but working at the surgery has given him a fair amount of experience with kids. Actual prolonged contact, to passing observation. In a wide variety of personality types (and hence, parenting styles). From the squalling infants to the frustrated toddlers to the utterly out of control primary school kids. John feels confident that Sophie would be considered by most parents to be an 'absolute angel'.<p>

Before Sherlock had even discovered her presence in the flat, John had watched with a hint of apprehension as the little girl poked about their sitting room. Obviously curious. Normally, Mrs. Hudson keeps her rather close at hand, usually on her lap or in the chair next to her while they have tea. John isn't sure if the landlady is more afraid of Sophie damaging something of theirs or of her getting into something of Sherlock's that is decidedly not child-safe. He certainly can't blame her. For either fear.

But Sophie had merely toddled around, clear blue eyes taking everything in and that was a bit disconcerting how much it resembled Sherlock entering a crime scene. Utter focus. Objective observation. Absorbing every detail. John had followed her, keeping just one step behind, happily answering her questioning looks and pointing finger. And ready to avert potentially calamitous incidents.

She had found Sherlock quickly enough and John did nothing to stop her from approaching. Sherlock was only staring into his microscope, not blowing up beakers or cooking severed thumbs, so John thought it safe enough. Sophie had walked two big circles around the kitchen table, opened one cupboard to look at the pots, and said a quick " Hullo, Lahlock," before coming back to John's side.

Sherlock grunted something in reply, but never looked up.

After that, John felt better about having her in the flat. He allowed Sophie to lead him back to the bookcases where she promptly pointed at a large dictionary. John thought it odd, but shrugged and pulled the book down. He snagged his laptop from the table and they both settled onto the sofa. John worked on his blog. Sophie flipped through the pages of the dictionary.

After the dictionary, she went through the magazines on the coffee table, lining them up precisely and then stacking them up, then lining them up again. John was quick to put the papers and tabloids out of sight.

After the magazines, she played with John's shoes for a bit. John had chuckled and pulled them off for the girl to try on. An incredibly amusing quarter hour for them both.

After the shoes, she had wandered around -John watching her from the sofa- and ventured again into the kitchen. John heard a cupboard opening and closing, the familiar childish pronunciation of Sherlock's name, and Sherlock's absent " Good, good..."

Then she returned to the sitting room, found the frames and played very happily for nearly an hour, despite Sherlock's grouchy appearance midway.

With Sherlock once again thoroughly entrenched in whatever experiment- and John certainly didn't want to know anything about it- and Sophie entranced by the simple action of crawling onto and slipping off of the chair, John finishes his blog sooner rather than later.

And realizes he's starving. John hasn't had anything since breakfast. He knows Sherlock hasn't eaten anything since yesterday. Mrs. Hudson said Sophie had eaten a fair amount for elevenses, but John figures it's about time for the girl to eat again. " Hungry, Sophie?"

Sophie teeters precariously on the edge of the chair. Her small brows draw together in confusion.

" Eat?" John tries another word. Lifts his hand to his mouth in pantomime.

Recognition dawns. Sophie beams and promptly slides off the chair, bum hitting the floor. " Eat, eat, eat." She stumbles up and immediately heads toward the kitchen at a fast clip. Clever girl.

John carefully scoops her up before she crosses the threshold. " I think take-away is best, sweetheart. We don't keep much in the way of edibles in there." He grimaces at the thought of what is currently occupying the icebox.

" Change her nappie for God's sake."

John startles, whirling around with Sophie still in his arms. " What?" He'd thought Sherlock had completely forgotten about them. His flatmate is staring at a collage of petri dishes on the kitchen table, writing out cryptic notes without looking at the paper or at John and his charge.

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw work visibly under the skin. " She's needed a change for the past thirteen minutes. Is your sense of smell defective?" Snark blunted by his diverted attention. Typical.

" I can smell that bloody awful mess you've got bubbling in the microwave. " John frowns, eyeing the beaker of questionable liquid boiling in the microwave. He's certain that ammonia smell is going to linger. Sherlock doesn't respond, instead flicks on the blowlamp and adjusts the flame height. John rolls his eyes and lifts Sophie up, nose not quite touching the seat of her little cargo pants. Damn. He puts her down, bending slightly to take her hand. Tosses back over his shoulder, " Chinese or Thai?"

" Indian." Contrary bastard.

John decides to nick Sherlock's wallet to pay, out of simple spite. With a huge tip for the delivery. He grabs the large satchel Mrs. Hudson packed along with Sophie and leads her back through the kitchen, toward the bathroom. " This way. We'll get you cleaned up and order some grub and hope the great git doesn't burn the place down."

* * *

><p>John is very proud of himself.<p>

He'd manage to order their food while simultaneously changing the soiled nappie that wasn't nearly as horrible as all the sitcoms made it out to be. Not exactly pleasant, but as a medical man John had experienced much worse and Sophie was extremely cooperative during the entire process. She even reminded him to apply the talc. A bit heavy handed with it, John supposed, , judging by Sherlock's flared nostrils when they exited the loo.

Lunch had arrived and John made no secret of taking Sherlock's notes to pay for it. He cleared the table in the sitting room, placing his Union Jack pillow in the chair next to his, and firmly requested Sherlock's presence. In two ticks, the food had been plated and all three tucked in with great enthusiasm.

John had ordered pakora for Sophie, who inhaled them with barely a pause to drink from her sippy cup between bites. He ended up sharing his chicken korma with her once she began pointing and looking at him with the begging-puppy-eyes that John could never refuse on anyone.

When he returned from freshening their drinks, John found Sophie calmly sticking her fork and fingers into Sherlock's plate of lamb vindaloo. Sherlock continued to eat as though he did not notice the theft. Sophie continued to eat as though she did not notice the spiciness of the dish. John shook his head and didn't question it.

Dividing up the last of the naan between himself and Sophie, John casts a glance at Sherlock standing in front of the window. Instead of retreating back into the kitchen/lab the moment after finishing his food, Sherlock had ambled casually around the flat, hands in the pockets of the dressing gown. Until he eventually reached the window and remained. Staring. Deep in thought, as Sherlock was wont. John watches him for a moment and shrugs to himself. Sherlock doesn't seem unusually irritated or out of sorts. Not whinging about being bored. Not exactly pouting.

" Ah dun, Dohn." Sophie's high voice pipes up at his side.

John puts his full attention back on her and laughs. Her face is covered in chutney and yogurt sauce. Bits of naan litter the table in front of her plate and the front of her jumper. John removes the worst of it with a tea towel, then hauls the girl into the bathroom for a proper scrubbing. There's still a light dusting of talc over everything in the room. He'll get to that later.

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock has not moved. John goes about clearing the table, washing up the few dishes and checking the rug for any dropped bits. Sophie finds a stack of old nature books in a pile on the floor beside Sherlock's chair. Having observed her earlier behavior with books, John says nothing when she claims one. A field guide on insects in the UK. He picks up a medical journal from his own stash near the sofa and settles comfortably in one corner, keeping his eye on both Sherlock and Sophie.

So quiet. There's a bit of rustling across the room. John lowers his magazine. Sophie is swapping out the field guide. He catches a glimpse of the new cover. Birds of the Americas. John looks back down at his article on suturing techniques and gets lost in the varying patterns.

A soft shuffling. Nearer and nearer. John assumes Sophie is heading toward the sofa. When she doesn't tug on his leg after a few moments, he raises his eyes over the edge of the journal. Gaze widening, breath halted.

Sophie is edging her way between Sherlock and the wall. One little hand gripping his ridiculously expensive dressing gown. Field guide clutched in the other, close to her chest. John watches as she calmly plops down at Sherlock's feet, on his feet, and opens the book. Sherlock doesn't bat a lash.

Quiet little whispers and random, muted sounds. Several mutilated names. Lahlock and Dohn and Miz Huzzin. John stares. Sophie is slowly turning through the pages, obviously naming the various pictures after people within her small social circle. And essentially reading to Sherlock. Occasionally, she lifts the open book, displaying a particularly fancy bird. When Sherlock ignores her, Sophie merely puts it back in her lap and continues her mangled monologue, completely unfazed.

A spark of anger flares in John's chest. Just for a tiny moment. It wouldn't kill Sherlock to acknowledge the poor girl. Give a simple nod and kind word. He almost calls to Sophie, to encourage her to climb onto the sofa beside him. Away from Sherlock. To keep her company and make up stories about the exotic birds.

But he doesn't. John gets his breath back and swallows the impulse. Sherlock isn't doing anything _wrong_. He's not berating Sophie. He's not discouraging her. He's not even removing his bare feet out from under her though the buttons on her back pockets can't feel all that wonderful on his toes.

John knows it's quite possible that Sherlock doesn't even realize that Sophie is sitting there. It wouldn't surprise him in the least. Not uncommon for the man to completely zone out, mentally disregarding everything outside his Mind Palace. That's it, then. John goes back to his journal, secure in the knowledge that Sophie isn't bothering Sherlock and the worst Sherlock can do is step away and cause the girl to lose her warm seat.

John relaxes back into the world of half-curved ski and non-swaged needles.

* * *

><p>Eventually, Sherlock does move away, sliding his feet out before turning on heel and re-entering the kitchen. John watches just long enough to make sure that Sophie isn't upset by the sudden change. She looks up from her book (this one a guide on dog breeds), gaze following Sherlock until he disappears around the corner. " Lahlock? " Sophie turns her attention to John. " Lahlock bye-bye?"<p>

" We can look at the book together, if you'd like, Sophie." John smiles gently and closes his medical journal. He pats the sofa cushion next to him. " Or we can watch the telly." He remembers suddenly." Or Paddington? Your mum put Paddington into your bag." John had noticed the DVD in his earlier search for nappies.

He's about to get up to retrieve it when Sophie's face erupts in a face splitting yawn. She actually stumbles a bit from the violence of the involuntary gesture.

John scans the room. The wall clock reads 14:37. Bollocks. He vaguely remembers Mrs. Hudson mentioning something about Sophie sleeping in the afternoon. Around 13:00. Bollocks again. John decides better late than never. " Bit sleepy, I see. Ready for a kip?"

Sophie nails John with a heavy lidded look. Then her face crumples. John is startled off the sofa as the first high pitched wail bursts free. Sophie follows it up with another and another, each scream more drawn out and rough edged than the one before. John doesn't know how she's taking in air between the banshee-like shrieks.

For the first few seconds, John can only stare, wide eyed, in horror and disbelief. What in bloody hell is happening?

Amazingly, there's not a peep from Sherlock.

" Night-night!" Sophie sobs and gasps, then lets loose with another pathetic wail. Shaking from head to toe.

John gets a hold of himself and skirts the edge of the coffee table. He picks Sophie up, her tears quickly soaking through the collar of his shirt, wetting the shoulder of his jumper. John screws up his face, turns his head a bit. Sophie does not curb the volume of her screams, even so close to John's ear. " Shhhhh, there, there. Just a nap. " He pats her back, holds her close. To no avail. If anything, Sophie's vocalizations become even louder.

Who is this panicked creature and where is the happy little cherub he'd watched all afternoon?

Panicking himself, not wanting to disturb Sherlock or the neighbors or the casual passerby on the street who must think he's murdering the poor girl, John starts walking around the flat. Carefully bouncing Sophie in his arms in that soothing way he's seen the mothers do in the surgery waiting room.

Around the sitting room. Down stairs. Back upstairs. Downstairs again. All the way up to his bedroom where she immediately throws a fit for John's dressing gown draped over a chair back. John attempts to lay Sophie on his bed, hoping the blankets and pillows and his ratty flannel robe will be enough to send her off to Dreamland. No such luck. Sophie's screams take on an almost hysterical edge and John grabs her back up before the police are called. He can only imagine Lestrade's rant at getting that particular call.

John swears he's never heard this kind of commotion from next door, Sophie's home. And their walls aren't that thick. He's dealt with frantic patients before, of all ages. Calmed soldiers missing most of their limbs. Assured mangled car collision victims in the A&E. For fuck's sake, John can usually get the children in the surgery to crack a smile for him while discussing the upcoming vaccination they've been screaming about since they stepped foot in the office.

Defeated, but too stubborn to quit, John shuffles slowly back downstairs. Stands on the landing, not wanting to take another flight of steps, not wanting to push Sherlock's tolerance by re-entering the flat. He idly wonders if this will permanently damage his hearing. " Sophie, Sophie... it's alright, sweetheart. Just a little kip and then-"

" NIGHT NIGHT!" Sophie bawls directly in John's ear, tiny hands clutching his jumper and the dressing gown caught between them. Desperate. Terrified. " No night night!"

John releases a heavy sigh and opens the flat door. He'll grab his laptop and the DVD and take the girl to his bedroom to watch the movie until she tuckers out or Mrs. Hudson returns for her and John dreads the disappointed lecture he's sure the woman will have for him and his lack of caregiving skills.

He's digging around in the overstuffed nappie bag when Sherlock flies by in his peripheral. John claims the DVD and moves toward his laptop. The first notes of the violin are obscured by Sophie's noise and John's temper flares. Instead of helping, Sherlock is just going to try to drown her out with his own mad caterwauling. John grits his teeth, shifts his hold on Sophie to ease the growing ache in his weak shoulder. Practically shouting over the din. " Sherlock, that's not..." The rest dies in his mouth as he turns. Catches sight of Sherlock in the same moment that he begins to recognize the tune.

Sherlock, carelessly elegant pose in front of the fireplace. Embracing his violin, eyes shut in concentration as he drags the bow across the strings. Beautiful, sonorous notes filling the flat in a slow, lilting melody.

John realizes he's gaping, claps his mouth shut.

He also realizes that Sophie is now merely sobbing in that gaspy, shuddery way instead of screaming bloody murder. John drops the DVD onto the sofa and focuses on patting the girl's back, still rocking slightly in place. He doesn't dare try to hum along with the music. Watches Sherlock as he plays. Mesmerized.

The little body in his arms begins to relax, slumping heavily against his shoulder. Warm breath on his collar evening out. John risks a glance down to see the blue eyes hidden behind pale lids and red-gold lashes. Little hand dropping limp against his chest.

Sophie is asleep. Asleep!

John oh so carefully eases the child onto the sofa, covering her with his dressing gown. He feels a bit odd about that, but Sophie's asleep and not testing the limits of his hearing and sanity so to hell with his sense of propriety. John gently brushes some fine red curls from her forehead. Looks up as the last note warbles and fades away. Sherlock pauses, as though savoring the quiet, then opens his eyes and turns to put his violin back into its case. John reins in his excitement just enough to keep from jumping off the sofa, managing to roll to his feet with minimum disturbance to the child resting there.

Incredulous. Relieved. Ridiculously relieved. But John can't stop staring at Sherlock. Can barely find his tongue to speak. " That piece..."

" Don't." Sherlock's voice is carefully measured, but hard as stone. His hands lovingly caress the wooden case as he closes it.

" But," John wants to laugh. A gleeful, uninhibited, utterly overjoyed laugh. " Have you ever even seen Dumbo?" He takes great pleasure in following Sherlock back into the kitchen, watching his expression range from tightly controlled to faltering, unmoved to irritatingly embarrassed.

" Of course not." Sherlock snaps back. Shoves his face against the eyepiece lens, long fingers adjusting the dials below.

John waits, hands in his back pockets. Unable to wipe away the expectant smile. Willing to wait as long as necessary. Because he must have this mystery solved. For his own personal curiosity.

Sherlock sighs, but doesn't take his focus from his slides. " Mycroft convinced me it was an experimental Bach composition. " Lifts up to flash John a defensive glare. " I was only four."

John doesn't reply verbally. Though a question begs to be asked, balances on the tip of his tongue so he clamps his mouth tightly shut.

_Then why didn't you delete it?_

But John only mutters an , " Alright." He raises his hands in supplication, nodding, dulling his smile in deference to Sherlock's pride. John backs out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to have his strop on. Stands in the middle of the sitting room, glancing between his flatmate and his sleeping charge. Hands in his pockets again, rocking slightly on his heels.

Inside, John feels a giddy warmth. A soft affection for the little girl and the man-child, both placed in his care.

* * *

><p><em><strong>end <strong>__  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Curls  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> The Great Game  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John, Sherlock, OFC  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1170  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock is trying to ignore John. It is not working.  
><strong>AN:**Can be read as friendship or pre-slash.

* * *

><p>Sherlock strides through the sitting room, fresh from the shower. Pyjamas and dressing gown and a damp towel hung across the back of his neck and shoulders. Protecting his nape from the still wet tendrils already curling slightly around his ears. He settles comfortably in his chair by the hearth and pulls his laptop from the crack between the arm and the cushion. The sunlight flooding through the uncovered windows feels marvelous in the chill of early spring.<p>

He signs into his website, swiftly deleting any messages that are obviously a waste of his time._ Domestic. Domestic. Double Domestic. Blatant insurance fraud. Boring..._ One involves a clean toxicology and clear history of mental health but reported intoxicated and unstable behavior before death. And antique farm equipment._ Trip to the countryside. John will enjoy it_. Sherlock smirks, saves the email and presses on.

Attempts to ignore the piercing gaze he can feel burning a figurative hole through his temple.

John is sitting on the other side of the room, on the sofa. Sherlock had glimpsed a cup of tea, a paperback Western and a massive file from Bart's. A variety of photos and reports of 'unusual' C.O.D.s that Sherlock had insisted would be good research for John in his spare time. John seems to be only mildly interested.

Apparently, John is more interested in Sherlock's profile. Perhaps trying to set Sherlock's head ablaze with his thoughts alone.

It's amusing. For the first hour.

Now it's simply annoying. Especially as John leaves the sofa and casually ambles about the flat, looking out the windows, sorting piles of papers and books. Working his way closer to Sherlock in his favorite chair until he is right behind him, partially blocking the lovely warm sunlight.

" You're staring." Sherlock doesn't look up from his screen. Continues to type as he watches the shifting patterns of light across the arm of the chair.

It changes again, the shadow moving more to the side. John's lower body coming back into his peripheral. " Your hair."

" Afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific, John." Sherlock shoots off a reply email and begins surfing the news sites. Something somewhere must be happening, have happened, will happen. Keeps just enough of his attention on John to deal with whatever insignificant fancy his flatmate has embarked upon.

He can hear the soft crushing of the carpet under John's feet. John is only a step away from Sherlock's chair, just behind it. " It's just. Your hair just sorta does that. On its own. Doesn't it?" Voice closer, John leaning down. John's fingers in his hair, gently handling a single lock.

Nothing is currently happening. And John is being exceedingly odd. For now, that is better than being boring. Though it borders on being irritatingly stupid. Sherlock turns his head, tugging his hair from John's loose grasp, and lifts a brow. " Does what, exactly?"

John straightens up, hands back at his sides, but keeps his gaze just above Sherlock's forehead. " You know." He raises a hand to his own neatly shorn head, two fingers outstretched. Makes a furious little spiraling motion at his temple, that ends with all his fingers splayed out empathically. John's dark blue eyes are bright with an inordinate amount of amazement as he makes an accompanying goofy face for his goofy hand gestures.

Sherlock can only stare. John has obviously gone barking mad. Or drank from the juice carton Sherlock forgot to label as an experiment.

His silence and confused expression is enough to spur John into further explanation. " The curls. You don't do anything to your hair to get them. It just dries that way. Naturally. " Awed tone of voice. Like his praises after one of Sherlock's meretricious explanations.

No idea what to say to this. Sherlock screws his face up and leans away as John slowly leans down as he speaks, getting closer and closer. John's eyes are latched firmly on the spill of dark waves just over Sherlock's eyes. Studying them intently. Sherlock gets his tongue back, and a few wits. " Of course, not. No more than you do to yours. Other than run a comb through it upon occasion."

John does not appear to be listening. Much too focused on Sherlock's hair. " All that talk about Jim in IT-"

Sherlock's gaze widens instantaneously at the mention of Moriarity.

" - and I was thinking, ' Jesus, you're one to talk with that GQ model's mop you've got on your head' and-"

And then narrows again as Sherlock realizes where this conversation is going. " John."

" 'Course I've never seen any product in the bathroom, but I thought maybe it's the really fancy stuff and you hide it in that disaster zone you call a bedroom-"

" John."

" - haven't seen any curling tongs, either, but I figure you must improvise with something from the kitchen-"

" John!" Sherlock loses his patience, bellowing out. He's practically draped over the opposite chair arm, pulling his head out of range of John's invasive presence. For God's sake, Sherlock rarely feels so unnerved by his flatmate's attention. Correction. He's_ never_ felt this unnerved by John's attention. " I have curly hair! It, as you so plainly and rightly stated before, ' just does this' without any assistance!" Sherlock ignores the heat in his face. Abruptly sits up, nearly bashing his head against John's face, and putting his whole focus on his laptop. Ending this absurd conversation once and for all. Doesn't want to know what instigated John's curiosity or where John had intended it to lead.

He tosses the towel back over his damp head. Hiding. NO. Removing the distraction.

Fortunately for them both, John's reflexes are sharp as ever. Sherlock is grateful the man whips upright before they collide. A headache is already beginning to form at his temples from mere indignation and Sherlock really does not want to add to it.

" Alright, alright." John's voice. Amused. Chuckling quietly. " No need to get your knickers in a twist."

Sherlock's mouth thins into a petulant line. He pulls his legs up into the chair, laptop like a shield on his thighs, edges of the towel acting like blinders and blocking out the rest of the room. Quickly finds a website on antique violins. Sherlock doesn't turn his head to watch John walk back to his spot on the sofa. Merely listens to the soft whisper of fabric on fabric, stocking feet on the carpet.

Listens to John give a little sigh, under his breath. Quiet. " I think they're brilliant."

Sherlock pauses with his fingers over the keyboard. Feels the heat flare up, knows his ears are turning pink. Good thing they're covered by his curls. The curls that John thinks are brilliant.

He doesn't turn around. And he doesn't answer. Instead, Sherlock eases his mobile from his dressing gown pocket. Keeps it hidden by his body as he composes a new text.

_Thank you. I find your greys quite distinguished looking- SH_

Sherlock allows himself the barest hint of a smirk as he hits 'send'.

* * *

><p><em><strong>end <strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Test Subject**  
>Rating: <strong>PG**  
>Warnings: <strong>None**  
>Spoilers: <strong>Slight for The Hound of the Baskervilles**  
>Characters: <strong>John/Sherlock, OFC **  
>Word Count: <strong>1454**  
>Disclaimer: <strong>The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. **  
>Summary: <strong>Sherlock has a new test subject. John is not pleased. **  
>AN: **Pure, unadulterated ridiculous fluff. Seriously, ridiculous. Also, an OC from A Child in Our Midst.

* * *

><p>"What's <em>she<em> doing here?"

"How rude, John. She's our guest."

" Alright, _why_ is she here? With _you_? " John stands in the open doorway of their flat, shopping bags hanging from each hand, eyes blinking in disbelief because there is no way that he is seeing this correctly.

Sherlock sitting in his customary chair, elbows on the arms, steepled fingers pressed lightly against his lips. Gaze intent.

And their little red-haired neighbor, Sophie, sitting in John's favorite chair, small hands clasped together in near approximation of Sherlock's pose. Gaze just as intent.

Wearing an insanely bright jumper, spring green with large orange kittens frolicking across the front. John suffers such jumper envy.

Sherlock, never taking his eyes from Sophie or his fingers from over his mouth, replies in a distracted voice. " She's here with you, as far as her mother is aware. "

John blinks again. " I'm sorry?" The bags are getting heavy.

Sherlock huffs a bit in his usual Really-John-Isn't-It-Obvious way. A subtle gesture that screams volumes to those able to read it. Sometimes, John wishes he was illiterate when it comes to Sherlock. " Mrs. Bingley was in something of a quandary. Apparently her niece was to ride in this morning from Chelmsford to watch the child until Mr. Bingley's shift ends at noon. However, the niece never showed. Mrs. Bingley thinks she simply forgot, busy with finals and such, but I believe the girl is still passed out after yesterday's victory for her uni football team. Her current boyfriend is the winger, great stamina is required for such a position, so I'm certain they spent the majority of last night shag-"

" Sherlock!" John cuts off his friend in sharp reprimand. " Not for little ears!" He watches Sophie for any signs of following the adult conversation. She seems oblivious, still focused on mimicking Sherlock. Bright blue eyes, like bloody marbles, locked onto the paler ones across the way.

Sherlock sighs. John listens as he heads to the kitchen to put up the shopping. The milk is probably already too warm. " As I was saying, the niece never showed and with Mrs. Hudson visiting her sister this week Mrs. Bingley had to resort to alternative measures. She knocked this morning, seeking your assistance. "

John snorts. " She found you instead." He puts up the milk and yogurt, leaves a package of vanilla biscuits on the counter. Puts on the kettle. " And was actually desperate enough to leave Sophie with you?"

" No. I told her you were in the loo and would be right out. She didn't question my veracity."

John hangs his head. " You lied." He's not surprised that Sherlock lied, exactly. Just that he bothered to in the first place. " I'm glad you agreed to help her out, the poor woman is an utter wreck most days, but I know it wasn't out of the kindness of your heart. " John turns from the kettle, taking the two steps to the threshold of the sitting room. Stands just inside on the carpet, hands on hips. Hopes he doesn't regret his next question. " So tell me why you wanted to watch Sophie?"

" Test subject."

John gapes. Eyes bugging. He jerks his gaze to the toddler sitting very, very still in his chair. Too still, in his professional opinion, for a normally very talkative and busy child. He stares back at Sherlock. Completely shocked. " No."

" Studies have shown that the human brain develops most rapidly between birth and three years of age, the cerebral cortex creates two million new synapse connections every second -"

" You didn't." John snaps out of his stupor and practically trips over his own feet, so desperate to reach the girl.

" It's such a small window, really, to influence their education and learning processes, to shape their minds into something useful. Why, just the linguistic skills alone- " Sherlock continues his dissertation on early childhood brain development. "

Sophie!" John grabs the girl up, cradled tightly in his arms. Striding to the window to get a better look at her color, her breathing, her pulse, her skin for marks. " Dear god..." The trance appears to be broken and Sophie is now struggling valiantly. Making fretful sounds, though nothing John is able to interpret as words. He coos and shushes softly as he inspects her.

" John! You've ruined the experiment! I'll have to disregard this portion of the testing and I was very interested to see- "

**" **Sherlock, what did you do? What did you give her? " John is not panicking. On the outside. He's a doctor with a young patient and he knows better than to give in to such an uncontrolled display of fear. Inside, he is a frightened wreck of a man who remembers all too well a mug of coffee with an extra ingredient and hours of hellish paranoia and emotional chaos. " Tell me!"

Sherlock's voice contains a hint of confusion. " We had tea, milk and sugar. Toast- wheat- and orange marmalade. Perfectly acceptable fare. Not enough to ruin her lunch."

" What else? What kind of experiments? " John just manages to hold Sophie's head in place long enough to check her pupil dilation, turning quickly from the uncovered window to the darker flat several times. It seems normal. He takes a quick sniff and can't immediately smell anything questionable on her breath.

Sophie has both her hands on the large one cupped around her chin and cheeks. Pulling, squeezing, digging her amazingly sharp little nails into John's skin. " No Dohn! Lahlock! Lahlock pligh!"

" Reflexes, memory, spatial awareness, attention span..." Sherlock's voice trails off. Uncertain.

John turns back around, nearly thrown off balance by Sophie flinging herself forward, attempting escape. The expression on Sherlock's face is remarkable. Realization of what John is inferring. Indignation at what John is implying. And most of all, what John can plainly see in the line of his mouth and the light in his eyes, is hurt. By what John thought him capable of doing.

"Reflexes?"

Sherlock points to a small bouncy ball on the coffee table.

_Playing catch_. " Memory?" John swallows.

Sherlock points to a deck of playing cards scattered on the desk, half the deck face down. Several piles are sorted by suit or the particular butterfly species pictured on the back.

_A matching game._** " **Spatial awareness?" Sherlock doesn't even have to point it out. John now sees the stack of frames and several small hardback books arranged in recognizable, if imaginative, structures near the hearth. _Building blocks_. John sets Sophie down, watches with a strange combination of relief and a sinking heart as she makes straight for Sherlock. Her fingers latch onto the crease of his dress trousers. " Attention span?"

" We were in the middle of testing when you interrupted."

John can't help a rueful smile. " A staring contest?"

" Best 2 out of 3." Sherlock is somber and sincere. The hurt diminished but not entirely gone. Sophie is glaring at John with a passion inappropriate for one so young.

Not Good, and John knows it. Blush burning to the tips of his ears and the nape of his neck, John rubs the back of his head. Ruffling up his short hair. Lets his hand fall heavily back at his side and returns penitent eyes to man and child. " I'm sorry. Truly." He kneels beside the desk, groaning quietly at the ache in his knees. Holds his arms open and puts on his most charming smile." Forgive Dohn, sweetheart?"

There's barely a pause before Sophie launches herself toward John. Laughing with utter abandonment as though the entire debacle never happened. As though John hadn't just shown himself as a complete arse. He scoops her up into a close hug, accepting the sloppy, open mouth 'kiss' on his cheek. " Thank you, Sophie." Lets her go and grins as she hops around in a lopsided circle. John haltingly rises to his feet, knees protesting the movement again. He feels quite old, at the moment. Old and foolish.

Sherlock has been standing silent all this time. Hands in his pockets. Openly staring at John. Skirting around the exuberant toddler, John approaches his flatmate with a ducked head and an embarrassed flush still staining his cheeks. He sucks up his courage and raises his eyes. " You know I don't think-"

" It's fine, John." Softly, gently. Sherlock flicks his gaze over Sophie, then back to John. A genuine, if small, smile curves his mouth. " Completely understandable error on your part."

" I am. An. Idiot." John sighs deeply.

" I know. " Sherlock's smile widens a bit. Back to his normal self, and John knows he's forgiven.

The kettle begins to whistle.

Sophie squeals for tea. In mangled French.

Sherlock complains about John's selection of biscuits.

John can only chuckle. And continue to marvel at this insane existence he's come to love.

* * *

><p><strong>end<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: ** Does One Good to See a Miracle Every Now and Then  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Medical imagery, swearing.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> A line from The Great Game, but no spoilers.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John, Sherlock, OFC  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 2737  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sherlock is getting on John's nerves. John takes a walk and finds a distraction for his bad mood.  
><strong>AN:**Last one about children for a while, lol. Pure fluff and attempt at humor.

* * *

><p>It's freezing fucking cold outside.<p>

John shoves his gloveless hands deep into his coat pockets, hunches up, his chin burrowing further into his muffler. Misses his woolen knit hat. His ears are aching after only a few minutes in the icy wind. Damn Sherlock's propensity toward flammability tests! He'd loved that hat.

Yet, John is happy to brave the cold. The air is biting, wet with impending January sleet. But it smells sharp and clean. Fresh. Natural. Better than the heavy chemical stench and lingering hint of human decomposition of Bart's. London smells much, much better than death, thanks.

Sherlock had wrinkled his nose, of course. Not at the normal aroma of the lab, but at John's sudden insistence on popping out for some fresh air. Not fooled for a moment. John knows that Sherlock knows that John left to get away from Sherlock.

A few too many Not Good's, an almost argument over proper sterilization procedures with borrowed equipment, added to the previous three days' worth of constant aggravation, and John's temper had needed a brief reprieve.

Now, he's walking about the surrounding area. Wandering, a bit. Wasting time, if he's honest with himself. John wants to walk off the irritation with his friend, keep himself from running back to the lab just to punch that smug bastard's smirk right off his face. Grinds his back teeth in frustration at the thought. Ignores the vibrating in his pocket that signals yet another text from Sherlock. In the ten minutes or so since he left the building, John's mobile has been bombarded with texts, ranging from impudent requests for assistance to outright insults at his inability to take a joke.

His battery is nearly dead from the onslaught.

John winds his way through a neighboring alley to the next street over. It's a bit nostalgic. He remembers walking these streets in his student days. Taking short cuts because he'd overslept. Finding hiding spots for a quick snog between classes. Those were the days, yes.

Some of the tension eases as he walks, his pace slowing down. John finds himself several blocks away from Bart's. Still familiar territory. He pauses on the walk outside an apartment building, listening to the dull roar of construction equipment coming from inside. Renovating. He thinks they should be some very nice flats when finished. Another step, a narrow alley entrance. John frowns. He knows this place, he's certain.

John enters the alley, scanning the brick walls, searching for some hint of why he recognizes this particular one. He doesn't think he's chased any criminals through here. Not recently, at least. It corners to the right, and then to the left. The noise of machinery is even louder in the confined space. There are large piles of construction debris scattered randomly, partly blocking the narrow path. John skirts around or climbs over best he can.

And he laughs suddenly, despite his sour mood, chuffing little clouds into the frozen air. John remembers now. A particularly wild shag with a pediatrics professor ( she hadn't been his instructor at the time) in his second year of uni. In this alley. Against this very wall. Scraped his forehead against that single red brick amidst the grey stone. Ah, memories.

A hand flailing around a pile of timbers halfway down the alley disrupts John's pleasant reverie.

Startled, at first, he tenses, soldier's instincts still strong. " Hullo?" John has to shout over the noise, hope he can be heard above it. There's no response, just that hand grasping a timber, part of a tan overcoat visible beyond. And something... that sounds like a pained cry?

John furrows his brows. Takes a step forward. And another. And then breaks into a run as a young woman emerges around the pile of planks and metal sheeting. A beautiful thing, with tan skin and dark hair. Indian heritage, John guesses. Dressed nicely in a heavy camel overcoat and thick dark red muffler. Matching tights sticking out under the long coat, and a simple pair of black ballet flats on her dainty feet.

Very fetching.

And so very obviously pregnant.

Bollocks.

John reaches out and catches her just as she steps into his side of the alley, nearly tripping over scattered broken bricks. Still has to speak quite loudly, but not quite shouting. " You alright?" Stupid question. John can almost hear Sherlock's voice in his head. _Of course, she's not alright! Just _look _at her! _

The woman shakes her head, lips pressed tightly together. Two gasping inhales. " 'sA&E!" All strung together in one tight breath and capped off with a pained whine.

John's turn to shake his head. " Closed down years ago." Realizes she'd been heading toward the hospital.

The young woman releases a blast of swearing that causes John to blush despite the cold. In length, intensity and creativity it far surpasses anything he's heard in the army, pub, or the men's loo. He notices he's gaping at her when she looks up, all dark eyes and a tight, rueful smile. " Sorry, been away for awhile. Germany. Husband's... RAF." She begins panting again, the groan starting in her chest.

John blinks and actually chuckles. Then he's back to business. " Well, it's still a hospital and it's the closest thing, so." He loops an arm around behind her waist, intending to help her out of the alley. If they can get to the main road, perhaps he can even flag down a cab that can take them to the nearest A&E. Hopefully Sherlock's luck with getting taxis will have rubbed off on John by now.

They make it two steps. The woman halts, bending nearly double, clutching at her rounded belly. " Ahh! Can't... can't!" She leans against the wall, tears beginning to fall from the corners of her eyes. " Now, he's coming now!"

John nods, once. " It's alright. I'm a doctor, so you're in luck today." Smiles his most reassuring doctor smile. " How far along? "

" Thirty-four w-weeks." She groans, forehead pressed against John's shoulder.

" Any medical conditions? Complications? Concerns?" He helps her slide down to the ground, her back against the wall, his hand between the rough bricks and her loosely pinned up hair. She shakes her head in a negative reply for each query. John undoes the three lowest buttons on her coat to allow for her belly and very shapely legs and he really shouldn't be thinking that way at a time like this. But, Christ, she's wearing ruby red thigh highs!

He kneels in front of her, quick to remove his coat and drape it over her knees. Keep a bit of body heat near the poor woman and hide the distracting line of red lace. " What's your name?" John makes solid eye contact, tone casual.

" S-sarinda." She digs her nails into the hem of her coat, but her gaze remains focused on him.

" Lovely name. " His hands are like ice. " I'm John. My parents weren't very imaginative." John rubs his hands together briskly, friction heating his palms up, before reaching under the loose, patterned skirt. " Going to take your knickers off, but I promise absolutely no funny business." John grins, Sarinda gives a shaky-but genuine- laugh. The knickers are flimsy, thin pink cotton. He pulls them away from her body and tears them at the leg seam with little effort, muttering an apology under his breath. John leaves them hanging around her thigh as he assesses the situation. " Yes, indeed, we have a baby on the way!" The head is already crowning. No way he's going to get her out of this alley in time.

Sarinda squeezes her eyes shut and screams. More profanities. And what John assumes is her husband's name.

John continues to spill encouragements into the frosty air as he strips off his favorite jumper. " Something nice and warm... push whenever you feel the urge, Sarinda... impatient lad, isn't he?" He spreads the jumper beneath her and pulls his mobile from his back pocket. " Going to get an ambulance here, alright?" Scrambling with the phone, John accidentally hits the callback button. Calling Sherlock. John doesn't have time to hang-up and try again.

" _John, I don't have time for your little fits of indi-" _

John raises his voice, hoping to be heard above all the noise. " Sherlock, I need you! Send- "

" _Where are you? I can barely hear y-"_

" Sherlock! Send an ambulance to- Sherlock? Sherlock?" John pulls the mobile away from his ear and stares at it in blank horror.

Battery dead.

Double bollocks.

Well, he's on his own now. But that's fine. It's fine. John unceremoniously drops the phone to the pavement and puts his full attention back on his patient. Patient_**s**_. " No worries. " He flashes another smile, taking the jumper's sleeve in hand and pressing it against the edge of delicate skin being stretched outward. " You're doing wonderfully, Sarinda. Perfect." Feels the pressure under his fingers, even through the thick wool knit. Pushes against it to lessen the chances of tearing. " Just slow and easy, yeah? " He flicks his gaze back to her face, checking her level of awareness. " Breathe, Sarinda. Don't forget to breathe."

She pulls in several deep breaths, eyes locked onto John's face. He stares right back, giving her something to focus on. Sarinda pants heavily, head tipping back to rest against the brick. Her eyes stay forward. " Breathing... Doctor John. "

" Good, good. " John watches her, sees the subtle signs of another contraction coming on before Sarinda dips her chin back to her chest and partly muffles an agonized yell into her scarf. " Push, push, push! Keep going!" John looks down while her attention is diverted. The dark head is emerging slowly. John can make out the forehead and brows, the bridge of a tiny nose. " Nearly there, Sarinda! Rest now. Breathe, breathe..." He observes her closely, the color in her cheeks, the slightly glazed look in her eyes that he recognizes very well. Pain and focus. Of being so far inside oneself that the outside world is nothing more than a watery shadow. Seen so often in the field, in the med tents, on soldiers and civilians alike.

A moment of quiet, a minute and a half of intense breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

John continues to grin. He can't help it. He hasn't delivered a baby in over a decade, not since his residency at Bart's. He's in an unprotected alleyway. It's going to start sleeting at any moment. He knows Sherlock will eventually figure out where he is and what he needs, but not how long it will take.

But he has this completely under control. And the adrenaline rush is magnificent.

Another contraction. John adjusts the position of his jumper sleeve. " Good, good! You're doing great, Sarinda! Keep pushing!"

" John!" A crash of falling timbers. " John!"

John spares a second to glance over his shoulder. Sherlock is stomping through the congested alley, bellowing in his deep voice. John's smile widens immeasurably. The relief is a bit surprising. " Over here! Did you bring paramedics with you?" He hopes Sherlock, in his usual bossy way, has commandeered a nurse or at least some proper medical equipment for his search and rescue. John falls back into his litany of ' Good' and 'Push'.

He sees Sherlock approaching from his peripheral. Sees him stop a meter away. And just stand there. " You interrupted no less than a dozen experiments in progress for _this_? Typical."

" Shut up! What are you doing?"

" Texting Molly."

" To send an ambulance?"

" To check the results of my rectal abrasion test. I think I've-"

" Sherlock!" John wants very much to hit Sherlock. Anywhere. With anything. Maybe that plank right there. He can't look up, not with the baby's head pushing fully into his palm and Sarinda screaming bloody murder. He runs a finger under the wet chin, all around the head, checking for an umbilical cord loop around his neck. It's clear. John forces speech through a tightly clenched jaw. " Either make yourself useful or take your arse back to Bart's and call an ambulance! " He watches the rotation of the head, waits for Sherlock to leave.

A large black overcoat flutters down in front of John's face, neatly covering Sarinda up to her neck. Sherlock crouches at the woman's side. Takes off his expensive gloves and gently slips them over her trembling chapped hands. Folds his own slender hands around her smaller one. Murmuring the same comforts as John. Pale eyes flicker up. " I told Molly where we are. The paramedics should be here soon. "

John locks eyes with him. And the smile comes back, full force.

Sherlock returns it with his own.

And then John remembers that he has a job to do, a tiny life waiting for him to get on. " Alright, Sarinda! Give it all you've got! Push, push, push, push! Here he comes!" John eases a shoulder out, then the other. Sarinda practically growls as she bears down a final time and in a wave of fluids and limbs and cording, John catches a warm, slippery little body in the folds of his jumper. " Here he is! A great big lad, at that!" He's quick about getting his jumper wrapped snugly around the newborn, a thick wooly barrier against the cold. A few brisk rubs and the baby is wailing loudly.

Sherlock lifts their coats without any direction, allowing John to place the wriggling bundle in Sarinda's waiting arms before he covers them both again. Actually tucking it carefully 'round. Pale eyes glued to the crying mother and child.

Sherlock's expression... The man is certainly not as exuberant as John at witnessing this little miracle of life. He appears more curious than anything. But not in his usual calculating way, that keen observation that means he is brutally picking apart the subject. Solving the puzzle. No, this is softer, more open. A gentle reverence mixed with a dose of obvious confusion as to why Sarinda and John are so deeply affected.

" _Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it",_Sherlock had said that once, about something he didn't understand, didn't deem important enough to learn or retain. John remembers.

John is still grinning like an absolute idiot, riding the high.

Until Sherlock reminds him of some biological realities. " What about the placenta?"

" What? Oh, yeah." John glances around. Their coats are in use. His jumper is currently occupied. He glances over Sherlock's lanky form. " Give me your jacket." He nods his head to indicate his friend's black suit jacket.

" John." The pretty expression is gone from his face. Sherlock is nothing but serious now. Incredulous, really. " This. is. Italian." Slowly, as though John is a particularly dim-witted child.

John furrows his brow. " So?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose." What about that charity shop reject you're wearing?"

Sarinda is thankfully oblivious to their discussion/argument. Too busy cooing and sniffling quietly.

John swears under his breath and reaches under his muffler, begins unbuttoning his plaid shirt. The vest underneath is going to be poor protection in this weather and he is already shivering, the adrenaline rush fading.

Before he can untuck it from his jeans, John hears the blaring sirens of an ambulance not too far away. Thank Christ for small favors.

In short order, Sarinda and the baby (whom Sarinda kindly refuses to name 'Sherlock' despite all of Sherlock's persuasive arguments, but assures John with a grateful smile that his 'unimaginative' name would have a place in the infant's moniker) are bundled up properly into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics return their coats and the gloves. And pack John's jumper into a biohazard bag for him to take home. John is reasonably certain he can get it clean.

He gives a last wave as the back doors shut, promising to check on them both soon. Watches as the ambulance pulls away from the curb and into traffic as the first drops of rain and ice begin to fall.

Standing there, basking in the afterglow of a good deed well done, John turns his goofy grin on Sherlock just behind him.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up. " Did you enjoy your walk?"

" Yes. Yes, I did, thank you."

" Are you done being full of yourself?"

" Are you?" John rocks up on his heels and chuckles as Sherlock rolls his eyes and heads in the direction of Bart's. John swings his bagged jumper and follows cheerily in his wake.

* * *

><p><strong>end.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: ** Dormez-vous?  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> None  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John, Sherlock.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1360  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> John has never seen Sherlock sleep.  
><strong>AN:**Completely silly. Happens sometime during Season 1. Unbeta'd.

* * *

><p>John has never seen Sherlock sleep.<p>

He knows Sherlock does sleep; he's still human, after all. It's a biological necessity. But John has never caught him in the act, as it were. Never. The few times John has witnessed his flatmate unconscious there has always been a bad fall or blunt object involved.

It still amazes him how, during a case, Sherlock seems to be constantly alert, always awake and usually mobile and often enthusiastically talkative without pause. After a few months of cohabiting, John decides the many long, thoughtful silences must actually be an almost trance-like state for Sherlock (this seems to be confirmed each time John returns from the shopping and discovers that once again Sherlock has not noticed his absence). Not sleep, exactly, but enough for his flatmate to recharge and keep going during his endurance challenging cases.

So John is not surprised when he comes downstairs earlier in the morning than he normally cares to after a horrendously long night of chasing thugs along the bank of the Thames, to find Sherlock reclining on the sofa. T-shirt, pyjama pants, open dressing gown. Eyes closed, steepled fingers resting on his chin. The day's papers spread out on the coffee table. This is expected. This is normal.

John finishes his morning routine in the bathroom. Slips into pants and vest because summer in London isn't nearly as hot as summer in Afghanistan but as his American counterparts on base had often joked, " _But it's a dry heat." _Last night's rain is lingering in the air, the humidity lending its own brand of sweaty discomfort.

Sherlock is still on the sofa, unmoved.

John doesn't bat a lash. Is merely happy that Sherlock isn't bored and whinging in that annoying way of his. A voice that low should never resemble a spoiled brat's, as far as John is concerned. He enters the kitchen and goes about making breakfast. Toast and beans. Coffee, needed after last night. John groans, rolls his aching shoulder in a full rotation. He takes a plate of food to the coffee table, sets it down with a mug of coffee. Takes a few of the papers and barely glances at Sherlock. John knows he can neither force nor coerce his flatmate into eating. The coffee will most likely be taken, at least. Sherlock rarely turns down beverages.

Taking his own plate and cup to the partners' desk, John settles in with the newspapers to enjoy a quiet breakfast...

Hours pass. Uneventfully. Peacefully.

No calls. No texts. No buzzes.

Nothing but the occasional rustle of the papers morphing into the slow, light tapping of computer keys.

John sprawls happily in his chair, laptop warming the tops of his thighs. He's returning emails. Replying to comments on his blog. Idly surfing rugby sites.

Perfectly content when he hears a small sound from the sofa.

John ignores it. Too accustomed to Sherlock mumbling in thought to no one in particular. He Googles recipes for scones.

Another small noise. Followed by something resembling a groan. John looks up from his laptop, still a bit absent, mind still debating plain scones vs lemon. " Hmm?"

There's no reply. Sherlock doesn't move. John shrugs and finds a recipe for orange-raspberry scones that he deems much too advanced for his baking skills. He goes back to the lemon recipe, thoughtful.

Sudden movement from the sofa. John jerks his head up just in time to see Sherlock's long arm fall from its perch on his chest. Limp, lifeless. Knuckles barely brushing the floor. The sight is a bit disturbing. John swiftly puts his laptop aside and crosses the room.

A string of semi-intelligible words spills from Sherlock's mouth as John bends over the supine figure, reaching for the fallen hand. Presses two fingers to the inside of Sherlock's wrist, silently measuring his pulse. Counting the steady beats just under the skin. John is relieved by the normal heart rate, the healthy color of Sherlock's cheeks, the temperature of his forehead when he carefully lays a hand under the unruly mop of hair.

And then John is completely shocked and awed and somewhat amused by the realization that Sherlock is asleep. Completely, utterly asleep.

Dark curls wild against the cushion. Thin sheen of sweat on pale skin. Full lips parted slightly.

… He's amazing.

John chews on his lower lip. Feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He's not exactly sure why.

There's no time for John to ponder his reactions. Sherlock is mumbling again, voice quiet and scratchy. And yet, almost childlike in its pitch and the slight wavering at the end of what sounds like a question in-

French. Sherlock is speaking French. In his sleep. Of course. John is not nearly as surprised as he thinks he should be. He recognizes about one out of every seven words. It's been a long time since his secondary school language classes.

Mostly, what catches John's attention is _s'il vous plait._Repeated over and over, in a begging, pleading tone.

_Please, please, please... _

It's heartbreaking to listen to that normally arrogant, deep voice reduced to a pitiful moan, harsh panting. To watch the elegant face twisted in open vulnerability, the slender fingers twitch on his chest. To not understand enough of the words to know precisely how to respond.

John sinks onto the rug, side pressed against the sofa. Concerned. Wanting to help. Desperately wanting to help. He carefully pets the hand resting over Sherlock's erratic heartbeat. And struggles to remember that stupid language he'd never had any reason to learn properly.

" Je... je suis John." Quietly, nearly a whisper. Not wanting to wake the man who is so obviously exhausted. Just wanting to distract, to divert the nightmare. This technique has worked for John in the past, both to ease the bad dreams of -and to torment- his fellow soldiers, as young males are apt to do in close quarters. " Je suis John. J'habite à Londres." The two phrases beaten into him. Very hard to forget. Even now, near his forties, with his head full of Pashto and a generous sprinkling of Dari. " Je suis John. J'habite à Londres." John repeats it several times. As a reply to Sherlock's mutterings. As a filler for the quiet moment between. As a way for Sherlock to hear his voice and hopefully be comforted. " Je suis John. J'habite à Londres." His French instructor would be appalled by his accent.

But it seems to be working.

Sherlock looks confused even in sleep, some of the pained tension leaving his face, smoothing the lines by his mouth. " … John?"

" Oui." Another word recalled due to intense repetition in his youth. " Je suis John."

Rapid fire. Questioning. Desperate. Almost panicked.

John doesn't understand a word of it. " Uh... J'aime omelettes au fromage?" Holds his breath. He's just about reached the full extent of his French. Other than singing _Aloutte_ or _Frere Jacques_.

He watches the changing emotions sweep over Sherlock's face. First tightening the lines between his brows. Then relaxing, his features softening into an almost smile. " Omelettes?"

John grins in return, unseen. " Oui. Omelettes au fromage." Lets his hand still on Sherlock's, very, very lightly covering it.

Sherlock actually nods. " Fromage-" is the only word John interprets before Sherlock's speech disintegrates into slurred mutterings that John doesn't think he'd understand even if his friend was speaking the Queen's English. Probably a lecture on the various cheeses of Great Britain. Or perhaps an old case where cheese was the murder weapon. Death by cheese. John snorts at the possibilities.

It's not long before Sherlock settles back down. His words trail off. His breathing evens out. His fingers stop twitching.

John spends a few moments just... looking. Then hefts himself up with a stifled groan (he is too old to be sitting on the hard floor for extended periods of time) and shuffles back to his chair. Back to his laptop and rugby news and scone recipes.

And for the rest of the afternoon, whenever Sherlock begins mumbling in his sleep, John very quietly begins singing. " Frer-e Jac-ques, Frer-e Jac-ques... Dor-mez vous? Dor-mez vous?..."

* * *

><p><strong>end <strong>


End file.
